The Outlaw and his Lady
by j.Paynter
Summary: Future fic: post season 2 finale. Much contemplates what has happened to Robin, himself and the gang. character death.


It was raining earnestly now. He could hear it over the crackle of the fire where he sat beside the worn table in the kitchen of his house. The fire was the only source of light, the red painting the walls with flickering shadows.

He remembered such fires in the Holy Land. He remembered vividly staring dazedly into such fires after battles, searching for answers and absolution. That's where it had really all started.

Robin had been a boisterous boy; a handful to supervise and a trial as a playmate. He had taken their positions for granted, and Much had accepted them. It was after all normal.

The Holy Lands changed all that. It happened gradually. A friendship sprung out of loneliness from home. A familiar face, familiar experiences and familiar memories shared around a pint.

Standing in anticipation for their first big battle Robin had brushed his shoulder with his. When the horror filled nightmare was over it was Robin's shoulder that was still beside his; covered similarly in sand, sweat and blood.

Much was still the manservant and he was made to feel it; cooking and cleaning for his master while Robin dined and talked with the other nobles and the king. It was, however, Robin who returned early one night with a pilfered bottle of pomegranate, settled beside Much by the fire and wordlessly handed him the bottle. It was the beginning of a comforting routine.

As a peasant he wasn't expected to stand in attendance of the King. It was Robin's hand, however, that pulled on his elbow to make him rise in tandem so they both faced the Lionheart together. The puzzled and bemused look on the monarch's face at this show of…what had it been?...equitability?...loyalty?

It had been Robin who had remembered Much's birthday. Who bashfully handed over a well oiled, intricately grooved, round shield. It was Saracen craftsman and not strictly army regulations but Much loved it. On that occasion Robin had brought him breakfast, not the other way around.

In battle it was Robin's voice who calmed him from the berserk rage, it was Robin's hand who gripped his firmly and hauled him up off the hot sand, it was Robin who gently attended his wounds. It was Robin, who in the grips of fever and calling out Marian's name, clasped his hand tightly.

It was in the heat of battle that their friendship had been forged.

Now settled in this chair the old man that was Much looked around his Lodge. His home. He remembered when Robin had told him of his engagement to Marian and how alone he had felt at the loss of his best friend. Now he had a wife and children asleep in the house around him.

A tree creaked nearby in the unruly weather and Much took another sip of his drink. The King had pardoned them all; Will and Djaq had stayed behind in Palestine, Little John had gone to visit Alice and his son and Allan had been dispatched to Scarborough to tell Auntie Annie about Will only to find Auntie Annie had a young and attractive niece and the stay had become permanent.

He would come tonight as he had other nights like this for the last twenty years. And, indeed, as the thought occurred a hooded and cloaked shadow slipped in the side door. A drink was already awaiting him and he sat down dropping the hood.

Robin had aged since their last meeting a few months ago. His face was lined and his eyes still filled with shadows and grief. Alone of the gang he had remained in the forest.

There was something pale and thinner about him this night. His breathing seemed ragged and his countenance drooping.

"Why don't you stay the night, master?" Much asked as he had many times before. "Eve and the boys would be delighted to see you."

"Trying to get me out of the forest Much?" he said with a wain smile over his drink.

"I…"

"Never fear, I was away a little while ago. In fact I have just returned from Dover, I am amazed you did not realise the greenwood was empty."

"From Dover? Where have you…"

"Jerusalem." He sighed heavily and suddenly coughed. It was a harsh, racking sound that made Much wince. "I had to visit her again."

Much didn't ask who _she_ was. Robin had retreated to the forest like a ghost, the villagers almost believed he was one. The sadness, her loss even after all these years still sat heavy on his shoulders and Much barely saw the man he had been before. He had lost Marian and all else had paled in comparison. The life he should have had, the life he deserved after his devotion in his battle for the King, for _England_, had been refused for atonement and isolation in Sherwood. Much believed it was Robin's repentance, his guilt took him there even though he had nothing to repent. It was all he could do to expect these few visits and he wasn't going to jeopardise them. It was ironic how their roles had reversed. One time Much had thought to live in the forest as Robin and Marian got married and lived at Locksley. Now it was Much who governed over Locksley and the shadow that was Robin who slunk from the forest on occasion to have a drink by moonlight with his once most trusted friend.

"The others are coming tomorrow to have a reunion of sorts." Much said after a lengthy pause. "I had a message from Lincoln today from Will and Djaq. Even Little John is coming up." Robin merely looked over his cup at Much. "Will you come?"

Robin looked over into the fire for a long time, then finally he nodded. He stood, gathering his muddy, dripping and torn cloak around him, he nodded again towards Much. "I'll come tomorrow. It'll be good to see the gang again." As he drifted stiffly out the door his hoarse voice floated back, "…though I'll come late to avoid Auntie Annie's niece."

Much smiled. Allen's wife was a known chatterbox with a personality to rival a feral cat.

* * *

The next night was completely different. The rain had stopped and the sky was uncharacteristically clear. A full moon shone between the leaves of the forest canopy. The gang had arrived and gathered expectantly in the kitchen as the night had progressed. Will slightly browned from his exposure in the Holy Lands, Little John with more grey hair and Allan slightly subdued by his wife. Much had warned them not to expect much, that Robin had changed. That in all honesty Robin had been the walking dead since the day Marian died and was showing it more and more.

But then Robin hadn't come. Much was worried, Robin's concession the previous evening was as adament as the lethargic man got these days.

"I'm not being funny," said Allan as Much suggested they go looking for him. "But if he doens't want to come, he doesn't want to come."

Little John shook his head in disagreement, "_him_ we owe."

So that is how they came to be out in the forest, their feet treading the familiar paths by moonlight. It was by a mutual unconcious decision that they found themselves on the verge of their old camp as dawn began to rise. Much shrugged at Will and lead the way down, nothing moved or spoke.

"Robin?" Much called which came out almost a whisper. He stepped into the deathly quiet camp and spotted his friend.

Robin was lying dressed in the same clothes that Much had last seen him in. He was stretched out on his back, one hand clasping his faithful bow, the other lying across his chest. He was very still. Much took a step forward as the others came up behind him. He heard Will gasp and saw Djaq bring a hand to her mouth. John was staring sadly at the worn shell that Robin had become.

Much took another step closer then reached out to touch Robin's hand. It was cold and curved around something. Much's touch caused it to move and it revealed his clasp around a familiar ring. Much looked at his face and realised that for the first time in a long time Robin's face was creased and lined in grief but a smile graced his lips and he looked like their young carefree leader again.

"At least he's with her, again." John rumbled beside Much.

Later that day they all stood along the ridge facing the funeral pyre that they had made out of their camp. Will raised the flaming arrow and shot it straight and true into the heart of the camp. The gang stood together for a long time in silence watching the flames leap and consume the place they had once called home. A farewell to a loyal friend. Then they each went their separate ways and spread the story about the outlaw and his lady, and their love.


End file.
